9 mm
by Angst Is My Middle Name
Summary: The 9 mm bullet. Very popular. Used to stop criminals and enemies across the globe. John Watson thinks about using one to end his life. Rated for suicidal themes. No language/character death. Romantic friendship/pre-slash..


_**This actually sprouted from me wanting to know more about John's Browning, as I am what definitely qualifies as a gun person. I like guns. I enjoy shooting them, and I like to think that I'm not too bad at it. So, in a fit of gun envy, I looked up the specs, and then somehow this was spawned. (However, I did find out that in the show, they use a SIG instead of a Browning, but I still used all the L9A1 specs.)**_

_**Warnings: Triggers for suicidal thoughts and preparations. No character death.  
><strong>_

_**Disclaimer: I own neither Sherlock nor Browning.**_

* * *

><p>It's been a long time since you've felt this way. The feelings were so rare and intermittent that you never mentioned them to your therapist. They only cropped up around certain unhappy anniversaries from Afghanistan, where you served three tours as a medic, where you were wounded multiple times doing your job. You felt this way right after you were invalided home and couldn't find work. You would never understand why people were so put off by a simple limp. You felt it when Harry relapsed and tore into you emotionally and left her wife. It happened the night before you met Sherlock Holmes. However, it hasn't happened since you met him… until now.<p>

Sherlock's been gone for nearly four days on a special case for Mycroft. The day he left, you were let go from the surgery. You were the low man, and they had to make the cut for economic reasons. At least it wasn't due to your break-up with Sarah. You're not looking forward to telling Sherlock when he gets home. You don't want to tell him you've lost your job and half the rent. On top of that, your limp is returning. You feel useless, unwanted, worthless. Who would want you around?

So here you sit, on the couch in the sitting room, with your Browning L9A1 in your hands. The dark metal gleams softly in the moonlight from the window. It's a nice gun, very reliable, one you know well. You can take it apart and put it back together in about five minutes. You clean it religiously, keep the action clean and smooth so it fires perfectly. You know all the facts. It's a single-action, semi-automatic pistol. It takes seven-and-a-half pounds of pressure to pull the trigger. This caused a reaction in which one of thirteen, 9 mm rounds was fired it from the barrel at about 350 metres per second. (The 9 mm… not as powerful as the .45, but more power than the .38 round. Popular round, though, used by most police forces and armies.) Stamped along the side of the barrel, still visible in the moonlight, is 'PISTOL AUTOMATIC L9A1'. You _know_ this pistol. This is _your_ pistol. You have taken life with it, both in the Middle East and in London. You feel it would only be fitting if the last life it takes were to be your own.

You take a deep breath and let it out, wondering what the best to do it would be. You put the barrel in your mouth experimentally. The rules of shooting pass through your mind from habit. Do not aim at anything you do not intend to kill. Finger off the trigger until you're ready to fire. Know your target and beyond. Always keep the barrel pointed in a safe direction. Rules you were trained to follow, even in the heat of battle, _especially _in the heat of battle. This was still battle, however. It was just taking place inside your head this time. You decide against the current position, pull the barrel from your mouth, look at the gun again.

You put the barrel to your temple. (Do not aim at anything you do not intend to kill.)

Mrs. Hudson will be safe downstairs. (Know your target and beyond.)

You are useless. Unwanted. Worthless. _Damaged_. (Always keep the barrel pointed in a safe direction.)

You carefully adjust the barrel against your temple, trying to find the best placement, index finger resting along the barrel. (Finger off the trigger until you're ready to fire.)

You breathe in, breathe out, breathe in, breathe out. You are perfectly calm, even though you've never gone this far before, calm as you were in battle. You don't even flinch when the door is thrown open and Sherlock Holmes bounds in excitedly, saying, "Another case solved! That should keep Mycroft off-"

His voice is cut off in his throat. You can feel his eyes boring into you. There is the heavy rustling of fabric as he drops his coat and scarf to the floor, the sound of his quick steps as he rushes to you. He drops to his knees in front of you, his pale eyes wide with fear, his face whiter than usual. You simply look at him, truly devoid of any emotion. It's a strange turning of the tables.

"John," he whispers in a quaking voice, "John, why are you doing this?"

"Why shouldn't I? I'm a crippled, useless, out-of-work veteran," you reply, your voice flat and quiet, "I got laid off the day you left. I'm limping again. My army pension is barely enough to help with rent. I'm an idiot, nowhere near as smart as you. I just follow you around like a well trained dog. What good am I to anyone, Sherlock?"

"You're not any of those things, John," he answers shakily, "You're the most capable doctor I've ever met. You're kind and wonderful and you're the best person I know, and you're certainly smarter than the majority of the planet. But your worth to me isn't just as a doctor or as someone who helps pay the rent or as someone who follows me around to crime scenes. You… you're my best… my _only_ friend. You keep me grounded. You let me know when I've done something wrong, when I've hurt someone. You humanize me some. I… I care about you, John. I need you. Please don't do this."

Tears are forming in his eyes. You still have the barrel pressed to your temple, your hand steady as ever.

"John, please… I… I… don't leave me alone," he begs quietly.

In one swift, clean movement, you pull the gun away from your head and drop it on the floor, thumbing on the safety as you do so. Sherlock lurches forward and throws his arms around your neck, crying silently. You slowly put your arms around him, hands splayed on his back. You're not sure how to feel for once.

"Don't ever do that again," Sherlock murmurs, "Not when I've worked so hard to protect you. Promise me."

You bury your face into his jacket, breathe in, breathe out, breathe in, breathe out. He pulls away gently, looking you right in the eye. His own eyes are rimmed in red, his cheeks shining with tears… for you.

"I need you to promise me that, John."

"I promise, Sherlock," you reply, actually meaning it.

He seems to judge if you are being truthful, moving his hands to either side of your face. He then presses his lips to yours for a few seconds before embracing you again. You bury your face in his hair, his scent overpowering everything. Tears sting at your eyes, and you grip him tighter in your arms.

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

Know your target and beyond.

Do not aim at anything you do not intend to kill.

* * *

><p><strong><em>There you go. I have been on a roll lately with Sherlock fics.<em>**

**_Those rules of shooting I mentioned do exist, and they are taught to every first time shooter until you remember them and apply them every time you pick up a gun. If there are any questions about any of the Browning specs_**_**, I will be more than happy to answer them.**_

**_Reviews are love _:3**


End file.
